forward, smiling. The hut was surprisingly roomy, and would easily accommodate all six of us. It was bare of furniture except for mats strewn over the mud floor. We took off our shoes and sat, gladly, on the hard floor, our backs against the curving wall.
—This will be your quarters for the night. We apologize for any discomfort, but this is all we can provide at such short notice.
And before we could ask him any more questions he left us, stepping out into the night as soon as he uttered his last word. We left the door and the single window open to trap whatever passing breeze we could, but despite the stifling heat in the room, Zaq, seated next to me, was shaking violently, his arms wrapped around him, trying to keep warm. He was lying on his side, his head almost touching the floor. I hoped he’d simply fall asleep and wake up tomorrow when it was time to go. I felt as if I were being made solely responsible for him, and I wanted to say to the others, Don’t you know who Zaq is? Surely they knew about him, especially the Lagos reporters. After all, he had once been one of them. But these haughty faces looked young, ignorant—one looked even younger than me—and I saw how their puzzled eyes traveled around the room, landing on face after face, trying to gauge if we were in real trouble, or if this was a brief discomfort that would disappear with the coming of day. No, they’d be too young to know Zaq.
Zaq’s Lagos days ended almost five years ago, and in this business that was a whole generation. A generation of papers, his generation, had died out, its place taken by another generation, my generation. Broader, glossier, racier, cockier.
Not long after the priest had gone, a woman came in carrying a large bowl of water and placed it by the door. Then smilingly she invited us to wash our hands, and as we washed, two more smiling matrons came in, one with a bowl filled with steaming bean porridge, the other with a tray bearing chunks of lumpy home-baked bread. Not a three-course gourmet meal, but at this moment it tasted like the best meal I’d ever had. The priest, Naman, did not return; only the women did, to remove the dishes. We drank water from a plastic pitcher and before long we were all drowsy. Some of us were already sprawled out and snoring, having arranged our limbs around each other’s as best we could. All night I kept an eye on Zaq, who had a rough time of it, burning with fever and sweating till early morning, when his temperature dropped and he fell asleep.
I WAS THE FIRST to wake up, or maybe I hadn’t slept at all, and when I opened my eyes it was dark in the room, and outside I could hear the faraway call of roosters accompanied by insects ushering in the day. It was six a.m. It’d be at least another hour before the others woke up. I carefully made my way past the sprawled-out, intertwined limbs and emerged outside to sea air and birdsong. Nostalgia settled on my shoulders like the arm of a long-lost friend, urging me to look back and listen; it had been years since I’d heard such morning sounds, such silence. I walked for a while in the sculpture garden, studying the decaying clay figures, then I climbed a hillock overlooking the water and stared at its rippling, glittering surface. I saw a flock of morning birds emerge from a leafy cove on the opposite bank, and then I returned to the hut. All the men were outside already, except for Zaq, who was lying on his back on the mud floor, his eyes fixed to the concave thatch roof. When I stood over him I saw his forehead covered in sweat, his lips parched and bleeding. He tried a smile, but couldn’t make it.
I helped him outside and sat him on a log under a acacia tree. A man in a long white robe came and told us a pickup truck would be here any minute to take us to the pier, where we’d get the ferry back to Port Harcourt. Some of the men stood under the leafy gardenias and acacias that grew all over the yard; some walked in the sculpture
—This will be your quarters for the night. We apologize for any discomfort, but this is all we can provide at such short notice.
And before we could ask him any more questions he left us, stepping out into the night as soon as he uttered his last word. We left the door and the single window open to trap whatever passing breeze we could, but despite the stifling heat in the room, Zaq, seated next to me, was shaking violently, his arms wrapped around him, trying to keep warm. He was lying on his side, his head almost touching the floor. I hoped he’d simply fall asleep and wake up tomorrow when it was time to go. I felt as if I were being made solely responsible for him, and I wanted to say to the others, Don’t you know who Zaq is? Surely they knew about him, especially the Lagos reporters. After all, he had once been one of them. But these haughty faces looked young, ignorant—one looked even younger than me—and I saw how their puzzled eyes traveled around the room, landing on face after face, trying to gauge if we were in real trouble, or if this was a brief discomfort that would disappear with the coming of day. No, they’d be too young to know Zaq.
Zaq’s Lagos days ended almost five years ago, and in this business that was a whole generation. A generation of papers, his generation, had died out, its place taken by another generation, my generation. Broader, glossier, racier, cockier.
Not long after the priest had gone, a woman came in carrying a large bowl of water and placed it by the door. Then smilingly she invited us to wash our hands, and as we washed, two more smiling matrons came in, one with a bowl filled with steaming bean porridge, the other with a tray bearing chunks of lumpy home-baked bread. Not a three-course gourmet meal, but at this moment it tasted like the best meal I’d ever had. The priest, Naman, did not return; only the women did, to remove the dishes. We drank water from a plastic pitcher and before long we were all drowsy. Some of us were already sprawled out and snoring, having arranged our limbs around each other’s as best we could. All night I kept an eye on Zaq, who had a rough time of it, burning with fever and sweating till early morning, when his temperature dropped and he fell asleep.
I WAS THE FIRST to wake up, or maybe I hadn’t slept at all, and when I opened my eyes it was dark in the room, and outside I could hear the faraway call of roosters accompanied by insects ushering in the day. It was six a.m. It’d be at least another hour before the others woke up. I carefully made my way past the sprawled-out, intertwined limbs and emerged outside to sea air and birdsong. Nostalgia settled on my shoulders like the arm of a long-lost friend, urging me to look back and listen; it had been years since I’d heard such morning sounds, such silence. I walked for a while in the sculpture garden, studying the decaying clay figures, then I climbed a hillock overlooking the water and stared at its rippling, glittering surface. I saw a flock of morning birds emerge from a leafy cove on the opposite bank, and then I returned to the hut. All the men were outside already, except for Zaq, who was lying on his back on the mud floor, his eyes fixed to the concave thatch roof. When I stood over him I saw his forehead covered in sweat, his lips parched and bleeding. He tried a smile, but couldn’t make it.
I helped him outside and sat him on a log under a acacia tree. A man in a long white robe came and told us a pickup truck would be here any minute to take us to the pier, where we’d get the ferry back to Port Harcourt. Some of the men stood under the leafy gardenias and acacias that grew all over the yard; some walked in the sculpture
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